Liberated
by Gun Brooke
Summary: Andy has gotten herself in a jam. Literally. Getting more and more desperate, she prays someone will help her before Miranda finds out what she's done. And that's when Miranda shows up.


**A/N**: If you recognize this story, you're not wrong. I wrote this as an original piece for an author challenge ten years ago and it's been hiding on my web site ever since. As I read through it, I realized it was totally MirAndy, even if it was written before the film premiered. My love for May-December romance struck again, you could say. So, I rewrote it as a way of keeping my muse happy while I write the last of on the current novel I'm working on. I hope you enjoy!

**Liberated**

A MirAndy short story by

By Gun Brooke

"For heaven's sake!" I kneel and lean my head against the cool surface of Miranda's front door. Glowering at my right arm, which disappears through the mailbox slot, I realize it is hopelessly stuck. "Common sense is apparently not in my immediate vocabulary today," I murmur and push my hair behind my ear with my free hand. The truth is, this latest catastrophe is not the worst. I have already done the unforgivable. I have forgotten the key to Miranda's townhouse, as well as my wallet, back at Runway's office.

In sheer panic for not being able to deliver the Book and Miranda's dry-cleaning I came up with the idea to try and reach the locks through the ornate castiron mailbox slot. My arms are more slender now when I'm a size four after all. It seemed doable. And after ringing the doorbell, both hoping Miranda was home and that she wasn't, it had seemed like my only option. I realize I am clearly certifiable. I pull at my arm again, only to grimace and whimper from the pain shooting up through my elbow. "Ow!" How stupid can one person get? I managed to push my arm in past my elbow before I realized I was stuck. It's official. I'm a moron.

In my defense, it hasn't been my day. I was late for a meeting, had no time for lunch, and Miranda's super-hot no-foam skimmed milk latte spluttered all over my new off white skirt when Nigel slapped me on the back in his usual exuberant way of saying 'hello'. Then he handed over ten long lists and told me I was expected to update the computer records within an hour. I hate updating records.

The day moved on with a phone that didn't stop ringing, a model who gave me hell for something Emily, the first assistant, promised, but never delivered. Later, the almighty Miranda Priestly found it in her heart to demand I deliver the Book, even if it was Emily's turn, and then of course my all-seeing boss spotted the part of the coffee stain that had escaped my attention. So much for spending fifteen minutes in the restroom trying to rinse it out. I swear I went at that skirt as if I was da Vinci and my Tend spot remover pen was my brush. I should've changed into something else in Runway's Closet, but there simply wasn't time.

"If she uses the words 'decorum' and 'duty to appear representative of Runway and Elias Clarke' again, it will be too soon, and I'll end up in jail for throttling my boss," I hiss to myself where I kneel on the cold stairs outside her townhouse. I am constantly breaking my back trying to please her, and oh boy, I really do want to please her, I admit to that. I want to make her proud and what's more, I want her to see me. Not just as a commodity, a redundant, expendable assistant, but me. I don't see that happening. Well, unless she arrives home right this minute and stumbles upon me. Literally. That can still happen. I groan and slam a weak fist against the door.

I searched my pockets and purse three times when I arrived at the townhouse. By then the town car at my disposal had already left. The key wasn't there. Nor was my wallet. I know I saw the key sitting on the desk while I waited for the Book, and I put it in the…oh, wait a minute…My mind reels when I envision myself putting the key in the bag I keep my lunchbox in. The bag I shoved into my bottom file drawer together with all of Miranda's emergency stuff—eh, things. Another groan escapes me and I tug at my arm again. Still stuck. Great. I make an impatient sound and thud the side of my head against the door. "What else can possibly go wrong today?"

Wrong question. Too fate-challenging. The sound of approaching heels tells me someone's coming. Someone who walks securely on four inch heels. "Please, please, please, be a kind stranger who can help…" As if that is likely in Manhattan, this late in the evening. I'm likely to be accused of breaking and entering and hauled off to the police station. That is, if they can get me out of here. They might have to arrest me, door and all. When the steps slow down below the stairs leading up to Miranda's townhouse, I hastily start sending up panicked prayers. "Don't let it be her! I can have her find me like this!"

"What in the…?" Two Prada clad feet stop next to me and I carefully glance up at the elegant woman with short, silver-white hair. Dressed in a beautiful, snug cocktail dress and a faux fur coat, she carries what looks like a gift bag from the fundraiser event she just attended.

For an insane moment, I entertain the idea Miranda Priestly hasn't recognized me. Then I realize how futile that thought is, especially as I hung the dry-cleaning bags over the railing and have the Book next to me on the floor. Once again I thud my head against the door. I'm so fired. Ihave finally lost my job as well as my sanity. I never should've gotten out of bed. Period. I should've simply called in sick and blamed the freakin' bubonic plague or something. "Fu-…" I bite off half of the crude word.

"Andrea? What on earth are you doing down there?" Stern blue eyes nails me. "Are you all right?"

Now that's unexpected. Well, the Miranda-wrath can still happen. Like soon. "Oh, hello. Hi." I feel my cheeks warm and know I blush profusely, as I gesture at myself with my free arm. "I…eh… I was locked out." And stuck.

"And?" Miranda puts her gift bag down by the door and lowers herself to my level. She does it effortlessly, despite her high heels and tailored black and maroon cocktail dress. There is something entirely sexy about how Miranda balances next to me.

"And I tried to reach the lock."

Miranda's lips actually form a stunned, though soundless, 'o'. Is there a twitch at the corner of her mouth? I'm not sure. Miranda is never rattled, always dresses impeccably fashionable. And incredibly sexy in an all-overpowering sort of way. I want to groan at my erratic mind, but Miranda is kneeling beside me and likely to overhear.

"I guess it would be redundant to tell you how far-fetched this idea was in the first place?" Miranda shakes her head and scrutinizes my bare arm. "Are you hurt?"

"Only hurts when I pull." I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"I realize that, silly girl. But what about now, just sitting still like this?" Miranda slides her hands up along my arm.

"Oh." Goosebumps erupt with every soft hair that rises to attention on my arm. I lean against the door. "The arm's okay, but I've been here a while and my legs are almost numb. And I had to take my coat off, so I'm a bit cold."

"I see. Well, I'd rather not get the EMTs here, or the Fire Department. The press would have a field day." Miranda actually glances over her shoulder as if she half expects paparazzi to show up and take photos for Page Six at any given time. "I have another suggestion. You're not allergic to olive oil, are you?"

What? "Er, no. I don't think so." I frown. "Why?"

"Lubrication."

Miranda rises and pulls out her own house-key. Opening the door, she worms through, careful not to yank at the door and thus hurt her idiotic, but at least dutiful second assistant. I hope Miranda will give me some credit for being fearless—albeit fearless and stupid.

Miranda returns momentarily with a bottle of golden-green olive oil. "Very multi-purpose."

Blushing even harder, I catch on. "Okay, why not? I can't very well sit here forever."

"That would not be preferable, no." Miranda has removed her coat while inside and revealed slender, creamy white arms and a toned figure that belies her age. Miranda's eyes are clear and focused and her nose slightly bent in an aristocratic way. Her lips are narrow, but become fuller when she speaks of smiles. I know she's fifty-one. Not that she looks it on most days. Actually the only time Miranda has looked her chronological age in my presence was that afternoon in Paris when I walked in on her after her then husband had decided to step up his game to become the ultimate bastard. Free of makeup, red-eyed, and pale, Miranda was still beautiful though.

Now, Miranda kneels next to me, apparently mindless of the fact that her cocktail dress rides up and reveals sheer silk stockings all the way to where the lace begin and they end. She opens the bottle, but instead of pouring the olive oil directly on my arm as I figured, she fills her left palm and begins slowly spreading it on my stuck arm. Miranda uses her fingetrips to coat the part of my arm that was jammed into the narrow mail slot, poking and prodding to get the oil between me and the cast iron. "I think we need some more, so you don't scrape off skin when we pull."

I can sense Miranda's signature perfume, something flowery, with a tinge of sandalwood. "You'd think I'd have learned to be less of an idiot by now?" I murmur. "I mean, I've brought you the Book and dry-cleaning for more than a year and never forgotten the damn key before. You must think I'm hopeless." Why was I tempting fate by asking Miranda her opinion? This woman could be scathing enough without being prompted.

"I think nothing of the sort. You have a lothet to learn still about a great many things, but you are not entirely deplorable as my assistant."

"I walked in on you and your husband having a fight." I draw a deep breath as Miranda's warm hands massage more olive oil into my skin, from my shoulder down to the jammed elbow. Internal shudders reverberates throughout my abdomen and I realize with a start I'm responding to Miranda's touch in a most inappropriate manner.

"Only because my daughters pulled one of their infamous pranks. Not entirely your fault." Shooting me a steely glance, Miranda smirks. "They think I don't know. But even my angels are learning they can't hide anything from me."

"What about the time when I made you mad by snorting at that belt and calling everything 'stuff'." Directing the limelight toward my shortcomings might make Miranda withdraw some. Oh, God, Miranda shouldn't be doing this. She shouldn't slide her hands up and down my arm like that. And damn, I would die if she really did stop. What is going on here? Why am I suddenly so mesmerized by Miranda? It was one thing to daydream, or to have hot nightly fantasies about her, but this, feeling like I'm on fire with her kneeling beside me, is killing me.

"I can't see why I should judge you on a rookie mistake you made more than a year ago. Though I must admit that you have been distracted all day today. Perhaps this is why you stopped using your brain. A temporary error, I hope."

"Perhaps I'm simply a kiss of death?" I snap my mouth close. What possessed me to utter the word 'kiss'?

Miranda stops her movements. "Now, that I might consider. You do seem to be prone to mishaps , that's true."

I shake my head. "More like predestined."

Miranda gives a surprisingly soft smile. "Feel ready? Let's try this." She pulls gently at my arm and at first it seems as if it's permanently stuck, but then it slides back out with a resounding 'plop.'

Relieved, I begin to massage my numb arm, only to stare in astonishment as Miranda takes over and examines it thoroughly. "You have a few scrapes here at the elbow. We'd better clean those up." She gets up and extends a hand to me. "Care for a glass of wine?"

Now, what was she saying? Wine? Has my boss lost her mind? Never in a million years have I expected her to say that. "You don't have to…oh, crap!" My legs are asleep and I wobble into an unsteady standing position.

Miranda wraps a strong arm around my waist. "Easy now. Come with me and I'll help you clean those scrapes and pour us some wine. No arguing. Besides, you're freezing." She looks impatient. "Well?"

When Miranda speaks in that decisive voice, there is only one course of action. I'm not going to confess that I have also forgotten my own key and wallet at the office. I have no alternative but to walk back there, hope the night guard recognizes me and lets me in as my pass card is in my wallet. And how could I refuse Miranda when she keeps holding onto me like this? Like it is entirely natural.

I stop just inside the door as Miranda goes back outside to fetch my coat, the Book, and the dry-cleaning. After hanging the clothes in the foyer closet, she places the Book on the dresser before turning her attention back on me. Her enigmatic smiled appears again. "You look like you've been through hell."

I glance down at myself. Coffee-stain. Dirty hem on my skirt. Even dirtier knees and broken stockings. Oily right arm. Yup. Miranda was right. I nod and sigh deeply. "Not exactly representative of Runway, am I?" I smile hesitantly.

"Come with me. We better take care of you before you fall over and really injure yourself." Miranda leads me to the guest bathroom next to the den and motions for me to sit on the toilet lid. She pulls out a first aid kit, grabs a stool, and begins cleaning the small scrapes just above my right elbow. Attaching a few Band-Aid's, she nods. "There. It's only superficial and will heal quickly." She turns to the sink and rinses a washcloth. "Let's get all that oil off before you smear it everywhere."

I can't resist closing my eyes when Miranda washes my arm in slow, languid movements. "That feels good. I finally have some feeling back in my arm again," I say huskily.

"Good. Just relax." A soft, dry terrycloth towel replaces the washcloth. Patting my arm dry, Miranda moves closer and I can smell her perfume again. Then, to my astonishment, I feel Miranda roll down my stockings and take off my pumps. I have to look now. The vision of Miranda kneeling before me, again, make me clench my thigh muscles hard, hoping my legs aren't shaking.

Miranda lets the warm, damp washcloth slide over my knees, cleaning the dust and grime from the stairs away. Is it my imagination, or is Miranda washing a little too far up my legs with that cloth? My heart picks up speed and I have to force myself to breathe slowly and not let on how she affects me. Imagine that—my stern, collected boss, washing me and being this sexy, this breath-taking, while doing so!

Miranda dries my legs, slides the towel slowly up and down, perhaps a little longer than necessary, but I'm not about to complain. This has a very obvious effect on me. Miranda is bound to notice that, isn't she?

"You look tired." Miranda keeps her hands on my knees.

"A long day at work. Overtime, remember?" I smile and fights to sound casual. I'm becoming increasingly wet and an inner voice urges me to get a grip, or Miranda will pick up on my frame of mind. Or my scent.

"It's all right. You can just relax." There is something hypnotic in Miranda's voice that reassures me. I lean into the touch when Miranda sits back on her stool and begins to comb through my long hair with gentle fingers.

I instinctively follow Miranda's actions, involuntarily seeking the touch.

"You're just like a kitten." She chuckles quietly. "Do you like this?"

"Yes."

"Good. Relax."

I know I should sit up straight and decline any further assistance, but Miranda's hands do not relent. They stroke through my hair, down along my neck and gently rub my shoulders. I turn my head and lean against Miranda. I gasp as my cheek ends up resting against the soft swell of one of her breasts.

"Shh, don't worry. Just rest for a moment." Miranda's voice doesn't change. Or does it? I'm not sure, but it sounds deeper as it rumbles in my ear. It is soothing, mesmerizing even, and it makes my skin tingle and my breath quicken. "Are you ready to move into the den and have some of that wine?" Miranda asked. "You look exhausted."

"I'm fine," I say and stand up. Our reflections in the mirror catch my attention and I can't look away when I see us standing so close together. Miranda is slightly taller than meas she is still wearing her heels.

"Andrea?"

I turn toward Miranda, and for the first time, I'm not intimidated by the other woman's stern persona. There is kindness and caring in her blue eyes, and something more…Attraction? Something in the way Miranda looks at me, and how her hand is still on my shoulder, rubbing…no, caressing, makes me wonder... "Yes?"

"Den?"

"Sure. Den." Is this my voice? I hardly recognizes the low purr that emerges from my throat.

"If you like, you can have a shower or a bath after you've relaxed with some wine, before you call a cab."

I battle with the truth as we walk toward the den. "Er, thank you," I mutter. "But, really, I'll just pop back to the office and pick up my keys. No big deal."

"That's a cab ride all across town in the wrong direction, isn't it?" Miranda raises her eyebrows.

Cringing, I know I have to level with her. "Walk, actually." I avert my eyes. "Forgot my wallet too."

Miranda's hold of my shoulder tighten and I turn around again, facing her. "I'm not going make a big deal of it, Andrea," she says. "Why don't you spend the night here and bring the keys and wallet home with you after work tomorrow? I have several outfits here for you to choose from."

My heart overflowing, I can only stare at the unpredictable woman next to me. "Miranda, that's…I mean, you don't have to…" I should shut up and just accept, but my mouth keep insisting I should object.

"Andrea…" Miranda whispers. "Trust me. I do. I do have to. I don't want you on the streets across town at this hour. You won't be home until the middle of the night and you're finally getting warm again." Her eyes never leaves my face, as if looking for something that's hard to find. "For heaven's sake, you silly girl." She pushes a hand through her hair, disheveling it.

As if the mussed hair, normally so perfectly coiffed into Miranda's iconic hairdo, makes my boss more human, more accessible, I step closer, in to her personal space. "I'm no girl. I screwed up tonight, but I'm not a girl."

"I know you're not. You can be quite capable. When you're not trapped in my mail slot." Miranda chuckles, sounding kind as she teases me. "And no, you're not a girl. " She pulls me close, her slender hands against the small of my back. "You feel it too, don't you?"

I nod, knowing for certain my voice will betray me if I try to speak. I do feel it, but I sure didn't see it coming from Miranda's end. Or perhaps I merely deemed it so impossible, it obscured the fact this wondrous woman actually found me attractive. Like a self-imposed smokescreen.

"Let's sit down and have some of that wine." Miranda motions toward the den again. "The love seat is very comfortable."

"Right. The den." On a couch with Miranda? Sounds too good to be true on a Murphy kind of day, like today. I fully expect this amazing development to backfire, but am unable to keep away from Miranda.

"All right. Why don't you go and make yourself comfortable?"

Reluctant to leave Miranda, I nod and take a seat. Sinking into the cushions with a sigh of contentment, I don't take my eyes off Miranda who pours us two glasses of red wine after asking me what I prefer. Miranda joins me and hands over a glass. Our fingers touch as I accept the glass.

"Andrea." My name sounds slightly strangled from Miranda's lips after we taste our win, which is so soft and smoothe.

Without even considering if it is appropriate, or even very clever, I lean forward and press my lips to Miranda's mouth, preventing us from speaking any further. The kiss is chaste initially, merely a firm joining of lips. I feel Miranda take the glass from me and I don't care where it ends up. Then she places both hands on my upper arms and now I'm sure Miranda will politely decline any further caresses or overtures—and simply push me away.

Instead, Miranda pulls me closer, more or less to straddle her lap, kisses me and slides her tongue between my lips. She deepens the kiss further and examines every part of my mouth, stealing what breath I have left. I return the caresses with enthusiasm. Nothing I've done before has ever felt this good. I ignores my trepidations, and merely enjoy the moment. I have no idea where this was going, but I hope it is moving towards the bedroom, and that Miranda has treats herself to a bed matching the love seat; big and plush.

I place a gentle hand around Miranda's left breast and am taken aback at how fast her pulse is beating. Her heart seems to scramble to do its job and Miranda's breaths come out in short gushes. She makes a muted grunting sound and begins to push me back onto the armrest.

"Oh, yes. Like that. So…so good." I don't realize I've moaned this out loud until hear Miranda moan. Decisive, aggressive Miranda is more of a turn-on than I could have imagined.

"Andrea. Allow me?" Miranda holds my face between her hands, probing my eyes with hers.

The words hit just between my legs, sending my clit into pre-orgasmic spasms. "Anything you want, Miranda. Anything."

Miranda unzips her cocktail dress below her left arm and more or less tears it off, baring her lace La Perla bra to me. I'm about to go into overload. "Touch me."

"Oh, God." My hands move by themselves, and I cup the beautiful breasts, lunge on them, unable to hold back anymore. Tugging the bra down to reveal both breasts, I fill my mouth with a ripe nipple and the treatment I give it make Miranda arch and push me into the cushions. She skims her hand up beneath my skirt and find the drenched panties instantly.

"Ah, so ready for me." Apparently pleased by this, Miranda slips her fingers under the soaked fabric and find the wetness coating my swollen folds underneath. It only takes a few strokes along each side of my clit before I begin to soar. I groan louder and undulate against her determined hand, desperate for the magic Miranda's fingers creates.

"Ahh!" I tense and pull her down on top of her. Orgasms are meant to be shared and I want Miranda to feel how every muscle in my abdomen and thighs twitch and quiver when I plummet. "Oh, fuck! Yes, yes!"

Almost inadvertently, but not quite, I slide a leg in between Miranda's stocking clad thighs. Pleased to feel a humid heat against my skin, I press up. Miranda grinds her pelvis back and forth, quickening the pace with her hand still inside my panties.

"Oh…my…!" Miranda sounds astonished, as if she didn't expect this to happen, or perhaps to feel the way she does. I double my efforts by reaching between us to find Miranda's breasts. When this sends a jolt through her, I know I'm on the right track.

"I want you to come, Miranda," I murmur. "I want you to come now so I can undress you and start over!" I kiss Miranda's damp cheek as she lowers her head next to mine. "There," I urge her on. "Can you feel it? It's starting." It's true. A wave of pleasure seems to cascade though Miranda, who gives a short cry. A series of small orgasms erupts inside me as Miranda convulses against me, pushing her fingers deeper inside in the process.

"Miranda! Oh, Miranda…" My voice turns to a whisper.

Miranda slumps to the side and doesn't take her eyes off me. "Are you all right?" she murmurs huskily.

"Yes, why wouldn't I be?" I pant.

"It was just supposed to be a glass of wine." Miranda is just as out of breath as I am.

"It's not too late for wine." I kiss her lips lightly.

"But no regrets?" Her voice is light as well, but I can tell how she trembles against me. I cup Miranda's cheek and kiss her again with slow determination. "Never." Another kiss. "You?"

"Certainly not. No matter how unexpected this was."

"So you haven't been ogling me at all before today?" I'm too curious to choose my words properly.

A half-mocking, half-haughty expression appear on Miranda's face. "I do not ogle."

"All right. Let me rephrase that. So you haven't been checking me out at all?"

"Of course I have. I can't be expected to see you every day for months on end without noticing you."

"So that's all you did," I crinkle my nose, "noticed me?"

Miranda leans in and places a soft kiss below my ear. "All the time. Every day."

"Really?" My heart jump and a small, tender glow of happiness expands in my chest. "So you just bided your time?" I tease.

"Do you always ask so many questions?" Miranda sighs, but she doesn't seem to truly mind my innate curiosity.

"I do. I'm a journalist in the making after all."

"So you are." Miranda traces her index finger around the outline of my lips.

"Where was I? Oh, yes, you were just biding your time. And waited for what, exactly?" Nuzzling Miranda's temple, I can hardly believe I'm allowed to do this—and more.

Miranda chuckles. "I just had to be patient until you finally got stuck in my mail slot."

I begin to laugh helplessly. Miranda's dry sense of humor is yet another wonderful surprise. "Then I'm glad I had such a rotten day – until now."

Miranda seems to have stopped listening. She places a long, hot, trail of open mouth kisses down my neck. "Stay here tonight."

I arch and tug at Miranda's bunched up dress. "Yes." No other words were necessary. "Yes, yes, yes!"

END


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